“Hired by Academo and sent to you.”
Pena nodded.
“Residents pretty happy, overall?”
Pena’s eyes rounded. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
“What you said about students,” said Milo.
“Oh, yeah. What I meant was they got their needs. Got to have the Wi-Fi working, the A.C. going all the time, got to be able to watch their shows and listen to their music.”
“And no cops. Like the one’s who’d come if there was a noise complaint.”
Pena shifted his feet. “We don’t have that. We talk to them, it works out.”
Milo pulled out a photo of Amanda Burdette taken from one of the wedding shots. “This resident happy?”
Pena squinted. “Left my glasses up in the office.”
Milo drew the photo back to give him more distance.
“Her?” said Pena. “Yeah, she’s here. Why’re you asking about her? She in some sort of trouble?”
“Not at all, Bob. She just happened to be involved in another case—not as a suspect, a witness.”
“Witness to what?”
Milo waved off the question. “That’s actually what got me curious about what happened here. I saw the address in Lotz’s file and remembered it from her witness statement. I’m sure it’s nothing. Big city, big building, all kinds of things happen.”
“Exactly,” said Pena.
“Long as I’m here, though, I might as well touch base with her. Where’s her unit?”
“You need to do that? Fine, she’s in C. The third building.”
I said, “There are two other buildings?”
Pena smiled like a kid delivering a secret. “It’s one of those optical illusions. From the outside it looks like one building with three entries but it’s really three separates. When they built them, they put on a big front to cut costs. This one’s A, the others are B and C.”
“Any passage from one building to another?”
“Nope, structural walls between them.”
“Did Lotz work in all three buildings?”
“Yup.”
“Who lives in the other basement rooms?”
“No one, they’re storage.”
Milo tapped Amanda’s photo. “Building C. What unit?”
“She’s really not in trouble?” said Pena. “That’s all I need, more trouble.”
Milo said, “Perish the thought, Bob. By the way, how many units are there, total?”
“Thirty-one times three. Ninety-three total.”
“Amanda’s been no problem.”
“That’s her name?” said Pena. “I know it sounds weird but I don’t bother with the names because they come and go. To me she’s C-four-eighteen. Fourth floor.”
“Do you know if she’s in?”
“Not a clue, don’t pay attention unless they call with a problem.”
“No calls from Amanda.”
“Nothing,” said Pena. “I don’t keep tabs on them, sir. It’s not like they work regular jobs, keep regular hours.”
“Got it, Bob. Where’s the mailroom?”
“Downstairs in B. We got a service, delivers to each unit.”
“Nice.”
“That’s what they pay for.”
“Okay, we’ll pay Amanda a visit while we’re waiting for the warrant.”
“Sure,” said Pena, sounding anything but. He rubbed the top of his head and screwed up his lips.
“Is there a problem, Bob?”
“No, no problem—the company likes privacy for the residents, that’s all. It’s like a thing for them.”
“Privacy.”
“We need to be better than a dorm.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna break down her door, Bob. Just a gentle knock.”
“Sure,” Pena repeated. “And yeah, I never hear from her. To me that’s a good resident.”
* * *
—
The three of us walked outside and over to Building C. Milo pointed to a closed-circuit camera above the door. “Saw that at A. Need the tapes, Bob.”
“No tapes,” said Pena. “Direct feed to the company computer.”
“You don’t have a copy?”
“Nope. There’s a problem, I email them, they look for it and mail it back.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Stolen bike, that kind of thing. Doesn’t happen a lot.”
“Okay,” said Milo. “Email the company and get me the past twenty-four hours on all three buildings.”
“I need to get authorization from one person before I ask another person.”
“How long will that take?”
“I can try today, sir.”
“You do that, Bob. Tell all the persons to hurry so we can keep things simple and assure privacy.”
“I’ll do it but it’s up to the company.”
“Be convincing, Bob. Now unlock that door. Please.”
* * *
—
Building C’s lobby was pale green, undersized, and unfurnished, lit by LED ceiling cans and carpeted in sand-colored Berber showing its age. At the rear, two elevators.
Pena said, “I don’t need to come up with you, right?”
Milo had been working his cell, adding Michael Lotz’s Volvo to his warrant application. He looked up and gave one of his unsettling smiles: timber wolf baring its teeth just before feasting. “Actually, we’d rather you didn’t come up, Bob. In terms of the CCTV, best thing would be the company emails it to me directly.”
“I don’t know, sir. Never had to do this before.”
“Thanks for your help, Bob.”
Pena looked alarmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”
Milo’s smile held. Pena scurried off, exited back to the street, and turned right.
Milo said, “Being helpful seems to bother him.”
I said, “Company man. If things get complicated, he doesn’t want to be seen as allied with you.”
“Meaning he’d lie to keep his job.”
“Good bet. You see anything to lie about?”
“After I toss Lotz’s place, I’ll let you know.”
I said, “Didn’t see a phone or a laptop in there. No Wi-Fi could explain the computer, but everyone has a phone.”
“Guy living like that, there’s a good case for burners.”
“Maybe, but if you need dope, you keep an active phone.”
“Point made. It’s a hole, all right. What a way to live.”
I said, “Float away on a heroin cloud and not much matters.”
He frowned, glanced at his cell. “Judge Klee promised A-sap but nothing yet. Then again, his loyalties are to himself.”
* * *
—
Sluggish elevators, both reluctant to leave the third floor. Finally, they arrived simultaneously. Empty.
Milo said, “Eenie meenie,” and stepped into the left-hand lift. We took a slow, grinding ride to the fourth floor, stepped out to a hallway crowded with chain-locked bicycles and scooters.
More Berber, scuffed and stained and fraying around the seams. The walls were milky gray, the doors deep gray, each furnished with a black button to the right.
Muffled voices and too-loud music, most of it hip-hop, leaked from behind some of the doors. At the far end of the corridor, a scatter of empty beer cans.
Behind the door of unit 418, silence. No bike or scooter but something had deposited a strip of tarry grit that ran to the door. Transportation kept inside.
Milo put his ear up against the door.
“Someone in there,” he whispered.
His knock went unanswered.
Pushing the black button evoked an insectoid buzz—fatigued cicadas.
No response.
A door five units down opened and a heavyset girl with yellow cornrows dangling past her waist emerged, stared at us for a moment, then headed for the elevators.
Milo repeated the knock-and-buzz.
Nothing.
He put his ear to the door again, backed away, and talked softly. “She stopped moving around.”
“Not in a social mood.”
“Big surprise.” He got close to the door. Cleared his throat and said, “Amanda?” at medium volume.
Silence.
We returned to the elevators. Both were lolling on the ground floor. When they didn’t respond, he said, “Let’s take the stairs—no cracks about aerobics.”
I said, “What aerobics? We’re climbing down.”
“Everything’s relative.”
* * *
—
Lots of trash in the stairwells, along with a scatter of dead roaches, spiders, and the desiccated remains of other six-legged things.